


don't ask me how, but ask me where

by hauntedjaeger (saellys)



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Gen, Not Beta Read, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25790617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saellys/pseuds/hauntedjaeger
Summary: Three times Celeste the pharmacy clerk met other members of the Old Guard, and one time Andy came back.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Celeste
Comments: 34
Kudos: 397





	don't ask me how, but ask me where

Even in a place as provincial as this, the overnight shift brings interesting people. It’s why Celeste chose it; she’s alone until she isn’t, and then there is someone to wonder about. 

“Bonsoir,” the woman says as she enters, and Celeste answers in kind. 

She goes to the cosmetics, and casts about for a moment. “As-tu… ah, merde. Visage--fondation--” Her hand sketches an oval around her face. 

“Correcteur de teint?” Celeste supplies. 

“Oui!” 

Celeste switches to English as she comes out from behind the counter. “Only a small selection.” Most of it is too pale for this woman. She shows her the Nars sticks. 

The woman considers the two darkest shades, and opts for the one with the warm undertone. Her face is bare, her skin healthy. After a moment she notices Celeste looking. “I’ve got this fancy dress thing coming up.” 

Celeste nods, carefully professional. “What are you thinking for lip shade?” 

“I should probably keep it subtle. I like yours, though.” 

Celeste points it out for her. She takes that tube, a bright coral, and a dark suede. Good choices all. The coral in particular will be marvelous on her, striking. What must she look like, when she is not trying to be subtle? 

Speaking of not being subtle--she realizes she’s been staring, again. The woman does not seem offended, at least. Celeste goes back to her place at the register while the woman selects a blending sponge and makeup remover wipes. 

“Enjoy your soirée,” Celeste says as she rings her out. 

Her smile is quick and brilliant, with something cheeky to it. “Merci,” she says. She pays with crisp new €20 notes, then tucks the bag inside her bomber jacket and goes out into the quiet night. 

* * *

They hover at the cold & flu section. Celeste can’t help but eavesdrop. 

“If we get the tea,” says the bearded man, whose accent sounds like the family in the apartment on the other side of the courtyard from hers, “we can cover the taste with honey. Crush some basil into it--tell her it’s an oxymel.” 

His partner starts, “If I can be frank--”

“I haven’t called you that in years.”

“I’m very glad you can joke at a time like this. She needs to join us in this millennium sometime, hayati. She’ll resent it more if she knows you’re babying her.” 

“No, I’m letting her feel like she’s toughing it out. Who’s going to get her to swallow a pill?” 

They slip into a different language. Or maybe two; they’re speaking too fast and quiet for her to keep track. 

“Excusez moi, mademoiselle?” Celeste looks up from a magazine. The Italian holds up a box of oscillococcinum. “Does this stuff work?” 

She nods, with an equivocating tilt to her head. She isn’t a pharmacienne any more than she is an aesthetician, but the consultation window closed at 6:00, and she has taken it herself. “It reduces the symptoms. You still need to rest.” 

“Bien sûr,” he says. He’s frowning a little as he nods, but he puts it in the basket. 

When they check out they have the Actifed tea, the oscillococcinum, cough drops, a sleep aid with ibuprofen, and a jar of honey. “Influenza,” the Italian says despondently. 

That much is evident, but Celeste gives him a sympathetic grimace. Whoever the _she_ is, she’s lucky to have them. 

The bearded man counts out exact change. “No bag, s’il vous plaît.” The Italian turns around so his partner can put everything in his backpack while he’s still wearing it. He zips it all up and gives him a pat. “Merci,” he says to Celeste. The two of them walk to the door, shoulders brushing. “You’re on pill duty.” 

“Duel me for it,” says the Italian, but any response is lost when the door closes behind them. 

* * *

The early hours bring the strange ones. 

The woman’s red coat cost more than Celeste makes in a month, easily. Her companion’s leather jacket looks as though it’s been to the bottom of the sea. “Bonjour,” he says. They’ve stayed out all night. Celeste knows sobering up when she sees it; just one more occupational hazard. 

They bring five bottles of Evian to the counter. “Is there a bakery nearby?” the man asks en français, his diction formal beneath his weariness. 

Celeste nods, avoiding the woman’s unsettling stare. “Traiteur Duparcq is around the corner, but they won’t be open yet.” 

The woman straightens at that, something eager on her face. “Non,” the man says, one hand outstretched but not quite daring to touch the woman. “We’ll wait for them to open.” 

She isn’t happy about it, but the woman says nothing. She watches coolly as the man pays. 

It’s a €100 note. Celeste checks it under the ultraviolet light next to the register, and the man seems to be holding back a laugh at that. It’s genuine, so she makes his change. 

“Merci,” he says, and he leaves her €20. Celeste isn’t supposed to take tips, but declining it would mean arguing with them, and that would keep them in the store longer. She gives him a small smile. 

They disappear together, turning left outside the door, toward the bakery. She checks this note under the UV light too, then pockets it. 

* * *

She doesn’t recognize her at first. She doesn’t look long enough, distracted by restocking the candy bars at the counter. 

But, “Bonjour,” she says softly, and Celeste turns to look again. 

Her hair is longer and lighter. Her clothes fit closer than the coat she wore last time, and she wears them better, stands straighter. There is a cut--a scrape, more like--over her cheekbone. It could use some salve. Celeste would like to put some on it, to let her thumb glide across her cheekbone very gently.

Her eyes meet Celeste’s evenly. They are not without uncertainty, but it is a marked difference from the lostness she carried before. 

“I meant to come back sooner,” she says en français. “Things have been busy.” 

Celeste stands slowly, but this woman is not a skittish animal who will bolt. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says. 

The woman’s eyes do most of the smiling for her. “Do you have time to talk?” 

“My shift ends in--” she checks the clock--”twenty minutes. We can get coffee.” 

She nods. She turns toward the door. “I’ll be back then.” 

“Do you have a name?” Celeste asks. 

As if they have not shared an intimacy beyond mere introduction. As if she has not thought of this woman every day. As if she does not feel that she has known her since before human reckoning. 

“Andy,” says Andy, looking back at her. 

“I am Celeste,” says Celeste, and Andy looks as though she already knew and as though this is the most important piece of information in the world. 

“À bientôt, Celeste,” says Andy, and she goes back out into the morning that has just begun. 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from "I Know Places" by Lykke Li. 
> 
> Cheers for reading! I'm @hauntedfalcon on Tumblr if you want to yell with me about The Old Guard.


End file.
